Miami, It's Murder (17 page)

I was not about to start shopping at a botánica. Stores that service Santería practitioners have existed in Miami for decades but have proliferated since the Mariel boatlift. There now seems to be one on every Little Havana street corner, selling potions, herbs, candles, mystical charms, beads, special soaps, statues of the saints and gods, and other mystical paraphernalia.

They are small, dark, and mysterious and accept all major credit cards.

I drove home feeling better, buttressed by food, herbs, and magic. Even so, I checked the rearview mirror frequently and cautiously held my breath as I entered my apartment. Bitsy excitedly danced and wagged her tail; Billy Boots was curled up on a chair. He opened his eyes, stood up, and stretched, motivated not by my arrival but the scent of food. Everything, including my gun, seemed to be as I had left it.

I hadn't realized how hungry I was. After checking the apartment, I sat down and ate ravenously without even rewarming the food. Then I took Bitsy out but only as far as the street, watching for strangers as I tossed my hair, trying to shake out the herbs. On the way back I saw lights on in the Goldsteins' apartment and stopped to warn them. I didn't want to alarm them but I did want them aware, especially since Mrs. Goldstein unlocked my door to take Bitsy out a couple of times a day. I suggested that perhaps we should discontinue the practice for the time being but she would have none of it, insisting that Bitsy needed the exercise. Secretly I was relieved.

I went back inside and called both Lottie and Onnie to let them know I was home. Each had been waiting for my call.

Then I sat down to eat more mango flan and figure out what to do next. The flan was so silky smooth and went down so easily that, as usual when I am nervous, I ate more than I had intended. If a sinister stranger showed up to do me harm, at least I was well fed.

Deciding my next move was easy. I would keep following the Downtown Rapist story. I hoped the next major break would be an arrest but, realistically, that might never happen. All I could do was watch my back and keep doing my job. But I could take action when it came to the Fielding camp. I would confront Martin Mowry directly.

As I got ready for bed, the doorbell rang, jangling my nerves. Throwing on a bathrobe, I carried the gun to my door.

“Sorry to startle you, Britt. I should have called first.”

I quickly slipped the gun behind a sofa cushion and opened the door.

Mr. Goldstein stood on the threshold, carrying his toolbox and looking shy. “The wife thought I should put this up for you.” He shrugged and cocked his head. “It's not such a bad idea.”

I grinned as he went to work efficiently, drilling small holes, inserting screws, and mounting a mezuzah on my front doorframe.

I kissed his wrinkled cheek as he left, then checked the doors and the windows. I touched the mezuzah, pinned my
resguardo
to my nightgown, tucked my beads and my gun beneath my pillow, and stared at the dark.

My dreams that night included spectacular chase scenes in which I seemed to alternate between being the prey and the pursuer. The cast changed constantly, tormenting my subconscious as though trying to tell me something that I could not quite hear in the dense darkness around me.

I woke up feeling like hell and knew what I had to do. I called Curt Norske and invited myself on a sightseeing cruise. Like Lottie had said, I needed a break. I hadn't felt so beaten up and shell-shocked since the last riot.

This is always my favorite time of year, when temperatures soar and heavy rains fall. Late each afternoon black clouds roil over the peninsula, sweep across the Everglades from the Gulf of Mexico, and drench the city. You can hear the grass grow. During the night huge ripe, rosy mangoes fall from the trees outside my bedroom window, dropping to the ground with soft thuds.

I gather them in the morning, selecting one of the biggest and best to devour with my newspaper, cereal, and Cuban coffee. The rest I deposit at the door of Mrs. Goldstein, who believes in sharing the bounty.

I went through the usual motions but lacked appetite and my usual sense of contentment. All I hungered for was answers.

My first task at the office was to track down Martin Mowry. He was upstate with the candidate, according to the local Fielding for Governor campaign headquarters. I missed him at the hotel where the entourage was staying but caught up with him by phone in LaBelle, where Fielding was about to participate in the annual Swamp Cabbage Festival. His speech at the Veterans of Foreign Wars post would follow the parade and precede the gospel sing.

I didn't say it was the press calling, simply announced it was long distance for Mowry. After several minutes, he barked, “Mowry here,” into the phone.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully. “This is Britt Montero from the
Miami News
. I understand you've been asking questions about me. Is there anything I can fill you in on?”

There was a pause. “Britt Montero,” he repeated. His deep, distinctive voice had the crisp quality of a man accustomed to dispatching and following orders.

“Yes,” I said, “and I'd like to know the reason for your inquiries.”

“You damn well know the reason,” he said. “That pack of lies and accusations you raked up.”

“They were questions, Mr. Mowry. Questions,” I said. “I'm a reporter; that's what I do. I ask questions, and most still haven't been answered.”

“Don't get your panties in a bunch,” he said arrogantly. “Let me tell you something. You may be unaware that Eric Fielding has been your publisher's personal lawyer for years. They went through Harvard together and each was the best man at the other's wedding.”

“I didn't know that,” I said respectfully. “But that has no bearing on anything we do in the newsroom.”

Or does it? I wondered. Christ! Was that why Fred Douglas told me to back off? Was I jeopardizing my job?

“You're not doing yourself or your career any good,” Mowry warned. “You don't seem to realize that you're about as important to your newspaper as a pimple on an elephant's ass.”

I swallowed. “But I still want to know—”

He had hung up.

That bastard, I thought, directing my anger at Fielding. Mowry was probably just following orders to try to intimidate me.

If only there was a way, I thought, to get back into the Mary Beth Rafferty story before the election. We had never published the name of the witness, the little boy, Mary Bern's playmate. Perhaps I could locate him. Or possibly someone involved would go public and demand that Fielding undergo a polygraph. Too bad Mary Beth's father is dead, I thought. I bet he'd do it in a minute.

Meanwhile, it was my job to keep the Downtown Rapist story alive until his arrest. I wrote a follow-up piece about Marianne Rhodes for the early edition.

Despite her TV debut, Fred Douglas had stuck by our decision not to publish her name. I identified her only as “the dark-haired junior executive.” Bitterly, she told me she had retained an attorney to file a civil suit for damages against her employer for failing to maintain a safe workplace. Sounded right to me. Too much litigation clogs our courts now, but if this was what it took to keep women safe on the job, I was for it.

Deliberately, I again used the line that Dr. Simmons indicated probably infuriated the rapist most, that the crimes were attempts to prove to himself that he was sexually adequate, which he obviously was not.

I finished the story and took off, leaving a note that I had gone to investigate the crime lab clue found on the letter, the particle of what could be marine paint. I drove to Bayside and parked the T-Bird, leaving my pager locked in the glove box.

The
Sea Dancer
is white and immaculate, a sixty-four-footer with double decks and stainless steel fittings. The captain welcomed me aboard personally, his gold-flecked eyes as warm as I remembered. I wore white cotton slacks with a peach-colored blouse and sat up near the captain, the wheel, and the public address system.

Biscayne Bay is a live work of art, constantly changing. Today it was smooth and flat, bridges and skyscrapers reflected in its brilliant blue-green surface.

Whether I hit it off with Curt Norske or not, this would be a welcome treat, I thought, settling expectantly into my seat among laughing, chattering tourists. I love to see Miami, and one of the best ways is from the water. The sight always fills me with fantasies about what it had to be like long ago, before the original city skyline gave way to the modern metropolis.

The boat was about three quarters full of noisy summer visitors in shorts and bright cottons, the smart ones protected by hats and sunglasses and swabbing on sunscreen. Some kids sported mouse ears acquired at Disney World during their trip south.

I dreamily scanned the bay's shimmering surface, its beauty driving away the dark images that had shadowed my thoughts. Waterfront has always been in demand. Tequesta Indians camped on these shores three thousand years ago, and archaeological digs in the South Biscayne Bay area had unearthed ten-thousand-year-old traces of humanity. Ponce de Leon sailed into this bay. Spanish galleons swept by, loaded with treasure, as Seminoles paddled dugout canoes. These waters were home to pirates, pioneers, runaway slaves, and battle-scarred Civil War veterans. What would they think of it today, the busiest cruise-ship port in the world? Today's news stories, trials, and turmoil, I thought: will any of it matter in a hundred years?

Taking a deep breath, I began to regain perspective, realizing how much I needed this respite. Then I began to wonder if I really should have included that line about the rapist's virility in my story. I looked around. There had to be a phone aboard this boat, I thought. No. I forced thoughts of the newsroom from my mind, focusing on Miami's chameleon colors, shifting shades of aquamarine, silver, and grass green.

We rumbled away from the dock, and the Dupont Plaza hotel drifted by to the south, near the mouth of the Miami River, which was crystal clear and clean enough to drink from until 1896, not coincidentally the year the city was born. The Dupont site was always inhabited. Slaves, settlers, soldiers, and Seminoles were early residents, but not the first. Builders paved over a massive Tequesta burial mound for hotel parking. The hotel opened in 1957, and my mother attended fashion shows, luncheons, and afternoon tea dances there. Miamians of every generation have had their own personal memories of the Dupont Plaza or the historic ground on which it was built.

My memories are unfortunate. Whenever I see the hotel, a wedding comes to mind. I was neither invited nor a participant. I was dispatched to cover it after gunfire broke out. I remember the beautifully appointed buffet table and its centerpiece, a magnificent multi-tiered wedding cake. Hors d'oeuvres platters, fresh shrimp nestled on shaved ice, and lavish flowers. Two rows of just-filled champagne glasses remained undisturbed. Ideal images for the caterer's advertising brochure, except for two men in evening clothes sprawled dead across the table next to the cake. One had been best man, the other a guest. The shooter, an old acquaintance of the bride, had not been invited, obviously for good reason.

We cruised past the causeways, the cruise ships, and the rich red rooftops of Fisher Island, where homes and condos, accessible only by boat, sell for millions; past waterfront property commandeered by an increasing army of homeless people who hang their tatty belongings from the fences intended to keep them out.

His resonant voice rich and professional, Curt was giving his spiel, pointing out the seaplane terminal on Watson Island, the Freedom Tower, and the big
News
building on the bay.

I listened demurely as our handsome captain show-boated as though for me alone, smiling and boldly winking until I couldn't help flushing and smiled back. He was telling a story about the hermit who lived in 1925 on a small sandy spoil island which is now the Dodge Island seaport. I knew this snippet of history. The hermit had refused to evacuate his tiny island as the savage hurricane of 1926 stormed toward the coast, and he was never seen again.

“Except,” our captain intoned, “on moonless evenings, when port employees, crewmen, and tourists have reported sightings of a mysterious bearded man. They are especially prevalent whenever storms threaten: the ghost of the Dodge Island hermit, stalking his former home.”

The tourists shivered with delight as I looked questioningly at our captain. I never heard that the hermit was haunting Dodge Island. Curt continued, adding that the summer storm season produced so many eerie sightings that some workers had quit their jobs while others refused to remain at the port after dark. I frowned, wanting to talk to people who had seen the apparition.

The landmark Palm Island home where mobster Al Capone died in 1947 was now in view. Tourists snapped pictures as our captain described how Capone masterminded his vast criminal empire from poolside at his waterfront mansion and how machine-gun fire had cut down Capone henchmen on that very strip of causeway in a deadly territorial dispute with Florida mobsters. Wait just one minute, I thought, sitting up straight in my seat. Gotcha! That one never happened. Our captain was telling them tall! One perk of being on the
News
payroll was access to the library, where I love to pore over old original news accounts. Scarface came to Miami to escape Chicago's cold winters and brutal violence and pretty much minded his manners. By the end he was too brain-damaged from venereal disease to run any criminal enterprise.

If the captain saw my skeptical squint as he steered us into the sun, he showed no sign. We chugged north, under the drawbridge where he had spotted Eldridge's submerged car. A network of pilings outlined the watery rectangle once intended to be Pelican Island.

“Starboard, to your right,” broadcast our captain, “you can see the pilings that form the framework of Pelican Island, once planned as a romantic honeymoon Garden of Eden for a lovestruck millionaire in the twenties.” His eyes lingered fondly on me. “The man-made tropical island was to be his wedding gift to a beautiful Ziegfeld Follies showgirl. But his sweetheart died tragically on her way to join him in Miami. Heartbroken, he abandoned construction and died soon after.” The captain's voice was low as he related the tragedy, his eyes solemn. He paused for dramatic effect. The tourists were rapt. “Some called it suicide,” he said, his voice regaining its brisk pace, “but I call it a broken heart. The island was never completed and the pilings remain, half a century later, a monument to love.”

A beautiful story, well told. Truly impressed, I cut my eyes at Captain Norske as the tourists gazed mournfully at the lonely pilings and mouthed the words, “You're full of crap.” He did a double take, then winked before continuing his talk, standing strong at the helm, overlooking his watery domain like a prince of the sea.

Not a word was true. The Venetian Islands, strewn east-west across the bay, were built in the twenties. Pelican Island, slightly to the north, was to follow, next in the newly emerging island chain, but the developers went broke in the bust that followed the 1926 hurricane.

Late-afternoon sun streaked the water crimson as we pulled back into the berth. The tourists scattered, and the captain and I strolled to an outdoor café serving up big strawberry and banana frozen daiquiris along with music from a steel-drum band.

He looked relaxed and happy. I couldn't stand it. “Where did you get that Pelican Island story?”

“Like it?” He flashed his megawatt smile. He was pleased.

I jabbed at my icy drink with a plastic straw. “None of it's true, you know. The millionaire and the showgirl, it sounds like some old B-movie.”

He looked wounded, brushing back his shock of blond hair. “It's original,” he said. “I made it up myself.”

“Right. The truth is that the developers went broke and stopped construction.”

“Think tourists want to hear that? It's a yawn. Doesn't have the right mystique.”

“The city has enough authentic mystique.” I couldn't help smiling. “I love Miami, but sometimes I swear Rod Serling must be the mayor. You don't need to make up stories.”

“You don't understand these summer tourists,” he said seriously. “They're not the rich and famous, they're not historians researching books. They're people who worked all year for this vacation. Think they wanna hear how some developer went broke? They want adventure, romance, chills, and thrills.”

“Such as the ghost of Dodge Island?”

He grinned. “Like that one?” The top two buttons of his uniform shirt were undone and golden hairs peeked through, glistening in the waning sunlight.

“I don't believe it. Nobody's ever really seen him. Right?”

The stress of interrogation apparently caused him to gulp his daiquiri too fast, and he winced in pain as it froze his sinuses.